


Black Panties.

by TragicLibertine



Category: British Actor RPF
Genre: Black Panties, F/M, I don't even care, One Shot, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, R&B, This Is Why We Can't Have Nice Things, cumbersmut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-05
Updated: 2013-12-05
Packaged: 2018-01-03 13:47:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,329
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1071162
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TragicLibertine/pseuds/TragicLibertine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some very sexy times backstage before Benedict reads R. Kelly's "Genius."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Black Panties.

“I’m glad you liked it,” he said, “seeing as that was about the unsexiest I’ve ever felt. Aside from being in motion capture.” Benedict smiled, tired, though cheerful. He sits across from you in the chair the studio provided for him, his legs crossed. His large hands roam absentmindedly along his thighs. Ben’s wearing his usual tailored blue suit, freshly pressed. You stare at his legs a little longer than you should, causing him to clear his throat to gently bring you back to the reality that you were sitting on his couch, rehearsing the lines of a raunchy R&B song with your celebrity crush.

“You know what? Why don’t you read that to me one more time?” You smile as you lean back into the sofa cushions. “This time, with more…sex? Yeah, I think that’s what’s missing.”

Ben smirks and runs his fingers along his lips. He’s been practicing reading the lyrics to this song—by “some American artist named R. Kelly”— for several minutes now, trying to get the rhythm down, even though he was still reading from a teleprompter on stage. But Ben wanted it to be perfect; he liked to at least try it out first.  

“I don’t think my reading is going to impart any more sex to,” he looked down at the booklet in his hands, “body so fucking soft, I can’t wait to turn you on.” He was visibly flushed, but not dying of embarrassment, which is more than you can say about yourself at the moment.  “I can’t say _fuck_ on American television, can I?” He giggles like a school boy.

“You know you can’t. But it’s fine; we’ll substitute it. _Freaking_ is acceptable.” You grin and shrug nonchalantly, though inside your stomach is filled with butterflies.  

You had been asked to run a few lines with Ben in his lounge, and, as his assigned studio liaison for the Jimmy Kimmel show, you knew there was no saying no. He’s dependent on you for small things, like errands and paperwork, but this was different. He grabbed you off your break and asked if it was fine to run lines with you, a stranger, since doing this with his personal assistant would have been a whole new level of awkward.  So here the two of you are, in his green room, going over his delivery of an R. Kelly song about fucking. Thank you, baby Jesus.

 “Body so freaking soft…” He gives you his best James Bond eye brow cock, crossing his legs in the opposite direction and posturing. “…I can’t wait to turn you on.” At this point you’re mouthing the words with him, your lips slowly whispering the chorus together.

_You got me like la la la la la baby…_

_It’s how you make me feel, baby…_

_You got me like la la la la la baby…_

Ben is looking at your lips, wet and full, still red from the day’s lipstick, miming his. He groans slightly and switches position. You watch his hands gently adjust his collar in nervousness, and suddenly it hits you—he’s hard, in that tight bespoke suit, and he’s trying to play it cool.

Your eyes go wide and you clear your throat.

“Well, um I think you’ve got it. You’ll be fine. You’re Benedict Cumberbatch, and if you totally fuck it up, we can always do another take. I think I should probably be going now.” You smile coyly and get up to leave, but your body has other plans. Suddenly you’re falling head over heels into the floor, having tripped over your own bag (very smooth).

Ben’s up rather quickly, his long legs striding over to you on the floor. Mortified, you quickly try to compose yourself, rambling off apology after apology for your own clumsiness. As he eases you to your feet, you feel his hand cup the base of your spine, which is suspiciously covered in more fabric that it should be— _the skirt_. Your skirt is hiked. Before you can reach down to spare yourself the embarrassment, you feel his hands gently smooth the garment down your thighs, brushing the tops of your stockings in the process. You freeze.

“I, um...see you dressed for the occasion,” he mumbles, looking away as he reaches down for your bag.

_What did he mean?_

A quizzical look must have spread across your face because he clears his throat and mutters “…black panties.”

 _The R. Kelly album._ Your face is suddenly hot with both embarrassment and excitement. You start to sputter. “Well, I – really, they were just lying around and…” You huff, exacerbated by your own feelings.

 “I never thought about that. I guess they’re fitting for _both_ of today’s guests.”  You eye him, waiting for some sign of reproach. He bites down on his lower lip and places his large palms on either side of your body.

“Let’s finish this reading then, shall we?”

You smirk. “Let’s.” Both of your lips gently mouth the words to the song.

_You got me like la la la la la baby…_

One of his hands is now roving along your thigh, squeezing at the flesh. You place your own hands on his broad, solid chest and run them across his shirt. His muscles tense. He’s so close you can smell his cologne on his neck.

_Anticipation so crazy…_

He leans down and presses his lips against yours, testing you.  You lean up and into him, meeting his tentative kiss with more force, causing him to moan out against your lips. You gather the courage to move your hands down his abdomen, stroking him as you reach down and tentatively grasp is cock through his trousers. He groans out and leans his head back.

You whisper, _“I’ll be good to you, promise…”_

His hands are pulling you into him, pressing you against his body, cupping your ass and tearing at the material of your skirt…

_While making love to you, promise…_

As you both pant out quietly, longingly, there’s a sudden knock at the door. Ben’s wanted on set. Five minutes.  Screen test. _Something or other_.  You pull away from each other and readjust your clothing. Looking Ben over, you realize that there’s lipstick on his jacket and some precome barely pressing through his trousers. You point them out, only to be met my grumpy groans.

“Fucking hell, I’m going to have to go for the black suit. Ah well, for what it’s worth…” He looks at you and flashes a sly smile, dashing over to his dressing rack. You sit down in his chair to compose yourself, looking at him disrobing and redressing as quickly as possible. He’s still hard, still looking at you out of the corner of his eye with a mischievous glance and mouthing the words to the song.

As you gather your things to leave, he stops you, gripping your wrist and gently pulling you to him.

“I thought you’d want me out of here as soo—,” he cuts off your sentence with a kiss on the cheek, this time avoiding the lipstick. His hand wanders up your arm as he leans into your ear and whispers, so close you can feel his warm breath. “I’d like to continue were we left off later on, if you like.”

You nod, breathing deeply.

“Good. I’ll be back, then.” His hand runs along the back of your neck, sending shivers down your spine. You breathe out the best sentence your mind can form. “Hopefully, we can give this song it’s…proper due, without the hurried distractions. I think my entire night is free.”

 “That’s great. And maybe, if you stay the night, _I can hit that thing again in the morning_.” He smiles and releases you, reaching for the door knob.

You part his company with a phone number and hotel key, written above one note he slipped you that makes you secretly smile for the rest of the day.

_“Promise.”_

 

**Author's Note:**

> I only own the plot line.


End file.
